The Dating Life of Sherlock Holmes
by HeayPuckett
Summary: Dating Sherlock Holmes is not for the faint of heart or unenterprising. Dating Molly Hooper is not for the squeamish. Sherlock/Molly. Post series 3. No Spoilers. Follow up to "Negotiations."
1. The Paris Catacombs Date

Sherlock and Molly begin a romantic relationship. Can you imagine the dates? I can.

Chapter 1 inspired by an incredible suggestion by katdemon1895. Thank you!

* * *

"It wasn't my fault," Sherlock Holmes insisted petulantly to a scowling John Watson as the former limped down the private jet's steps. Thankfully, John had chosen to take advantage of his upgraded clearance status to drive right up onto the tarmac instead of parking outside the airport. Sherlock was going to need more substantial support than his current companion could provide.

"It really wasn't his fault, John," Molly Hooper said apologetically as she struggled to support Sherlock's weight. When they were close enough, John took over for her, careful of the bright blue boot on Sherlock's foot.

"Well, whose fault was it then?" he grunted a bit as Sherlock's weight shifted to his shoulder.

"Mine," Molly admitted with a wince, "I wanted to take a closer look at a particular skull in the catacombs and, well, it went downhill from there."

Sherlock frowned, "I wouldn't say it went_ downhill_. Turned out to be one of the more fascinating cases I've had in a long time."

John shook his head as they levered Sherlock into the back seat of the car, "Only the two of you would go on a date in a catacomb and end up thwarting an international identity-theft ring." He straightened up and sighed, "Only you two would think visiting a catacomb constitutes a proper date in the first place."

"It was fun," protested Molly and Sherlock in unison. He could see from the looks on their faces that they were absolutely sincere. How, John Watson wondered for the thousandth time, did he end up with such nutters for friends?

He huffed a laugh, "Yeah, when you said you were 'borrowing' a private jet from Mycroft to take Molly to Paris for the evening, silly me thought you were going to have dinner and take a stroll along the Seine."

"You have_ met_ me, haven't you?"

"Touché."

Once John got his passengers settled and they started the drive back into London, he finally asked for the full story. It turned out to be quite a good one and he made Molly promise to make notes for him later so he could make a blog entry. It turned out that the skull Molly wanted to look at wasn't several hundred years old. It wasn't even several months old. It was practically still juicy (Molly's words).

Their investigation uncovered several sets of recent remains among all of the ancient ones. This eventually led to the discovery that a large-scale identity theft scheme, masterminded by a private nurse was stealing the identities of recently deceased seniors with no families. The private nurse didn't kill anyone, just waited for their inevitable deaths, but didn't report the death. Instead the bodies were secreted away and an impostor was brought in to take the dead's identity, then make a full recovery, thereby receiving the deceased's pensions or other assets. It wouldn't have been worth the effort for one or two, but dozens of identities had been stolen in this way and their credit histories exploited on the world market.

"The only snag was that they had to hide the bodies," Sherlock continued as John and Molly settled him in his chair at 221B. "Couldn't bury them just anywhere: too many bodies, chances were excellent that at least a few would be discovered. Don't need any pesky questions being asked. So they accelerated decay, maybe storing the bodies until it happened naturally. Acid bath more likely as it was less likely to attract attention from the smell and it would corrupt any trace DNA. Once the skeletons were clean and given a faux ageing treatment, they stored them among the other ossements. No one would notice one more set of remains among hundreds."

"Except Molly," John interjected.

"Except Molly," Sherlock agreed, looking stupidly proud of his girlfriend. Molly blushed.

"Job hazard," Molly said a shy shrug. "Their artificial ageing technique was amateurish. Couldn't help but spot the difference."

"Well you could spot it. I doubt any other forensic specialist would have been able to do so easily. Your volunteer work at archaeological sites has proven invaluable."

Molly grinned, clearly a bit flustered at the compliments, "Well, thank you, but I'm sorry about ruining the date. Especially since you got hurt." She gently propped Sherlock's leg on small ottoman she had pulled out of the corner.

"Well, you'll just have to make it up to me then," Sherlock said in a low voice. Molly blushed again.

John was ridiculously pleased to see the two flirting and excused himself to make tea. Molly followed to help and within a few moments they had a tray set up. John was looking for biscuits when heard a faint chime.

"Molly!" they both jumped a bit when Sherlock bellowed. Molly immediately checked the watch on her wrist.

"Oh! Excuse me a moment, John. He likes to keep to schedule on our dates." Molly gave him a smile and walked back towards the seated detective. John smirked as he watched Molly lean over and give the man a peck on the lips. Leave it to Sherlock to schedule the good-night kiss. The smirk grew to a grin when Molly tried to pull back, but Sherlock caught her wrist and whined, "we have ten minutes allotted for the good-night kiss and that barely took up ten seconds!"

"Yes, well, we're usually standing in front of the door to my flat. I can't kiss you for ten minutes while you're sitting. It's uncomfortable."

He tugged on her wrist, "Well sit here then," he said, indicating his knee, "It's practical and appropriate for a woman to sit in her romantic partner's lap, isn't it?"

"Quite," Molly said happily as she settled on his knee. It became obvious they hadn't done this before as Sherlock shifted a bit more than his injured leg would necessitate. John's heart stung in compassion for his friend, knowing new types of physical contact were difficult for him to adjust to, but adjust Sherlock did and soon the couple were contentedly trying make each other's faces disappear. John nobly resisted the urge to take a video of their epic snog and send it to Greg Lestrade. Instead, he finished the tea tray and left it on the kitchen table, then quietly left the flat. He had a feeling they were going to go a bit over schedule.


	2. The Paris Runway Date

The_ Body Worlds_ exhibition is a real thing. It's fascinating but not for the squeamish. All of the bodies were donated to science. There have been fashion designers that were inspired by human anatomy, particularly muscles. That said, if you are sensitive to the topic of anatomy as art, you may want to skip this chapter.

* * *

It was telling that one of the few dates that did not end with Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper on the wrong side of the police barrier was a date that Molly planned. Granted, given the nature of the date, there were those who would not see that as much comfort. It did, after all, still involve bloody corpses.

Well, not _actual _bloody corpses (much to Sherlock's disappointment) but quite realistic representations of corpses all the same. So accurate that after a few moments, Sherlock was able to ignore the fact that it was fake. The color, texture, drape- it all gave the impression of a cadaver laid bare and the pieces used to create something new. Frankenstein's monster meets haute couture. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to find that this date was shaping up to be quite amusing.

Molly seemed enthralled,too, but she was the one to suggest the activity and acquire the tickets. He had only to once again gain access to Mycroft's private jet. Molly, still under the impression that Mycroft had allowed them use of the jet the first time, had simply asked if Sherlock could borrow it again. He smiled and agreed, glad that she wasn't averse to taking advantage of his brother's position and wealth to make the date possible. She certainly couldn't have afforded to hire a private jet and he certainly wasn't going to fly commercial. He was glad it hand't come to that because he wouldn't have missed this for the world.

And that was how Sherlock Holmes found himself attending one of the most gruesome fashion shows in Parisian history. He and Molly were VIP's no less, thanks in part to her connection to the designer's assistant, an old classmate from St. Bart's. Having the assistance of a medical school graduate had certainly proved useful to the unique designer, Sherlock mused as he watched a bone-thin model glide down the runway wearing a body suit covered in anatomically correct muscle groupings. She was followed by an equally thin model wearing only strategically placed tendons and sheets of subcutaneous fat.

It shouldn't have been a surprise that Molly would want to attend something of this sort. How many times (individually and together) had they attended the Body Worlds exhibit? They had even spent a pleasant Saturday afternoon in a seminar led by Dr. Gunther von Hagens himself about the plastination process. He was surprised that he hadn't resisted the idea of attending this event during Fashion Week in Paris. Everything about that phrase had filled him with cold dread until Molly rushed to add the bit about the fashions being made of anatomically correct fake body parts.

At the reception which followed, they were served hors d'oeuvres by wait staff dressed in body suits depicting human musculature. Both he and Molly were rather fascinated by the lifelike (so to speak) quality of the suits and delayed every server as they passed so they could have a closer look. There was an awkward moment when Sherlock suddenly realized he was watching his girlfriend poke at the serratus anterior muscle of a rather well-built male server, but he shooed the man away quickly enough and redirected Molly's attention with a lingering kiss. They didn't often show affection in public, so it when Sherlock initiated a kiss in a crowd, it always captured Molly's full attention.

That it completely captured his attention, too, was beside the point.

All in all, it was an interesting evening. He learned quite a bit about relaxing and having fun, something John had been trying to teach him for years. Perhaps it just took the right partner in the right setting? Corpses on a Paris runway (there was a metaphor in that, but he would consider it later) and a happy Molly on his arm made for a perfect date as far as Sherlock Holmes could tell.


	3. The Ballroom Dancing Date

Sherlock and Molly's dating adventures continue. As always, John Watson is there to post bail.

* * *

The forlorn looking couple sat on a bench near Greg Lestrade's office. John paused a few feet away as he shoved his wallet back in his pocket and surveyed them critically. They were dressed to the nines, but the effect was somewhat subdued by their matching looks of defeat and the way they were sitting: each with an elbow on a knee and chin in hand. They both let out sad little sighs of defeat that softened John's ire a bit.

"Jewel heist? Really?" he said by way of hello as he stopped in front of the pair. Sherlock shrugged and Molly looked like she was going to cry. "Hey," John said with his it's-going-to-be-fine doctor's voice, "I'm sure it's not that bad. Bail was ridiculously low and Greg seems to think they can get the charges dropped once the suspect confesses."

"Mmm," Sherlock grunted, presumably in agreement.

"Come on," John said, giving Sherlock's shoulder a pat, "let's get you two home and you can tell me all about it."

"Not that much to tell," Sherlock admitted as he stood and tugged his jacket. Molly stood and smoothed her skirt and John noted that it was a particularly fluffy skirt (it took up half the bench) and very purple. Sherlock's tie and waistcoat were in a matching shade of purple, come to think of it. When they stood up, he noticed that Molly's dress was not only wide but a bit floaty. She still looked so sad that he didn't comment on it.

John led an abnormally subdued couple out of the building, giving a wave to Lestrade through the glass as they exited. Sherlock had his hands in his pockets and Molly was clinging to one of his arms. Her head rested against Sherlock's arm and she was positively morose.

"So...," John started, "that's a very twirly dress, Molly."

Molly smiled a bit, but it was Sherlock who responded, "We were at a ballroom dancing competition."

"Ah, the suspect owned a dance hall, right. You two were entered? And it wasn't a case?"

"That's right," Molly answered quietly, "We were set to start, when Sherlock realized the rhinestones on one contestant's dress weren't fake after all."

"The Mazarin Collection," Sherlock put in, clearly expecting John to know the significance. John just made a noise of acknowledgement. He'd look it up on the internet it later. "The proprietor had removed the stones from their settings and been smuggling them out on the costumes of amateur dancers he sponsored for competitions. His mistress sews their costumes. They were leaving for Cyprus as soon as he managed to sell all of the gems." Sherlock looked down and to the side, but not directly at Molly, "I am sorry. I should have waited, or called Lestrade straight way. Instead I got us caught up in another case."

"I'm not upset about that," Molly said with a sniff, patting Sherlock's arm, "that was fun, actually. It's just..." Molly looked up with tear-filled eyes, "we didn't get to have our dance. We worked so hard and we were so excited and we didn't get to dance."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment then stepped away, turned and held out his hand. Molly's eyes grew wide.

"Here? In the middle of the car park?" Molly asked as she took his hand. "But there's no music."

Sherlock pulled her in, taking one of her hands and resting it over his heart. "Remember what I told you?"

Molly nodded, "It's not about the music. It's about-"

"The beat. The rhythm."

As they spoke, Sherlock and Molly began to move to a rhythm only they could hear. Their hands gradually slid into the proper positions as their movements formed a perfect waltz. John almost dropped his mobile in his haste to document the very rare sight of Sherlock Holmes dancing in public. He regretted now insisting that Mary stay home, but knew she would appreciate the video he was recording.

Watching them was mesmerizing. John knew that Sherlock was a brilliant dancer- anyone who could manage to teach John Watson how not to embarrass himself on a dance floor had to be- but he had not had the chance to see what the other man could really do. He and Molly moved together in flawless synchronicity, her fluffy skirt billowing out as they twirled and spun. Under their feet, the cracked pavement of a littered car park became parquet flooring in the finest ballroom.

After the last, dramatic spin, their internal music ended and the couple stood smiling at each other. John put away his phone and was about to start clapping, but someone else beat him to it. Several someones beat him to it. He looked around as he joined in the applause to see several off duty officers standing in groups around the car park watching them. There were a few watching from the windows. He saw Greg Lestrade, who pointed to his own phone with a thumbs up, indicating that he had recorded it too.

The couple had been startled a bit by the sudden attention. Molly blushed, but Sherlock recovered quickly and leaned down to say something to Molly. She smiled and nodded and they performed the regulation bow all dance sport participants execute after their dance, Sherlock twirled Molly out and they both bowed before he led her off their make shift dance floor.

John grinned at them both and asked, "Do you want me to take you to Molly's or Baker Street?"

Sherlock looked at Molly and said, "You don't have work tomorrow."

Molly shook her head and Sherlock turned back to John, "Brockley Road. There's a dance hall there that stays open late." He offered his arm to Molly, "Care to come dancing?"

"I'd love to," Molly bubbled, as she took Sherlock's arm.

John grinned at the two and held the back door open, perfectly happy to play chauffeur.

* * *

Because Sherlock being able to dance (and enjoying it) is officially canon.


	4. The Night at the Ballet Date

In the belief that they can avoid further mayhem, Sherlock decides to take Molly on a more traditional type of date. He is completely convinced that a simple night at the ballet can't possibly turn into a case. Silly Sherlock.

* * *

" _'What could possibly happen at the ballet?'_ he says," Molly Hooper grumped from her perch on a retaining wall outside of the opera house. The area in which they were sitting was surrounded in yellow tape.

"In my defense," Sherlock Holmes responded as he paced the pavement in front of her, "I didn't know it was a traveling troupe from Moscow. If I'd known that it was a _Russian_ ballet company, I would have avoided it like the plague. I am perfectly aware of my record when it comes to interacting with Russians."

Molly sighed, "I'm sorry. I know it wasn't your fault. You couldn't possibly have known that two Chechen terrorists had infiltrated the troupe." Molly stretched her back out and yawned. "How did you figure that out, anyway. I didn't have time to ask before."

"Their tights." Sherlock supplied succinctly.

"Of course," Molly said with a fond grin. She would get him to break down his full deduction later, preferably after she had had enough sleep to have a fighting chance at understanding.

Really, she should have expected this. Even when Molly could only fantasize about dating Sherlock Holmes, she had known danger and intrigue would follow. Of course, her idea of danger and intrigue had been informed by telly and her dad's old Inspector Alleyn novels. Still, was it really too much to ask for one date in which they didn't end up running for their lives? Maybe she should plan the next one.

"I really am sorry, Molly," Sherlock said softly, moving so that he was leaning against the retaining wall next to Molly. He continued to look forward, "We both like the ballet, so I thought we could-" he humphed, "I thought_ I_ could be normal for once."

Molly's heart broke a little. For all of his confidence and arrogant certainty in his own intellectual superiority, there would always be a part of Sherlock Holmes that believed something was wrong with him. True, he didn't fit into any neat little social box, but that was society's problem. And Molly Hooper hadn't fallen in love with a normal bloke.

Molly hopped off the wall and moved to stand in front of Sherlock, gently placing her hands on either side of his face. He unconsciously leaned into her touch. Molly waited for Sherlock to look at her before she spoke. "Sherlock Holmes don't ever try to be anything other than what you are. Normal is boring. Normal is ordinary. You have never been nor will you ever be boring or ordinary. I don't love an ordinary person. I love the extraordinary, brilliant, frustrating, not-a-normal-bloke, Sherlock Holmes, and I won't settle for anything less. You've thoroughly spoiled me for _normal_."

It was hardly the first time Molly had confessed her love for Sherlock, but it felt more important than any of the other times combined. Somehow she had missed making Sherlock understand that her love was deep and unconditional. She cursed herself for not seeing how much Sherlock would need to hear the words. He might not be able to say it back, but he needed to hear it just the same.

Molly held Sherlock's gaze a bit longer. She knew she couldn't keep her emotions out of her eyes. Sherlock had pointed that out early in their acquaintance. It was part of the reason she had difficulty making eye contact with him early on and instead initiated conversations when he was preoccupied with something else: so he wouldn't look at her and see her adoration glowing in her eyes. The few times she had looked him straight in the eye were usually when he had been a complete berk, so all he could see was her pain. Now, though, she wanted him to see the sincerity and love she knew shone brightly in her eyes at that moment.

Several emotions passed quickly over Sherlock's strong features. There was the hint of panic that always came when he was faced with someone's deep affection for him. Molly wondered if Sherlock's first reaction to being offered love would always be fear. It passed quickly -more quickly than usual, she fancied- and his face settled into that soft expression he only ever used with her. There was almost a smile on his face as he cupped his hands over hers.

If they were any other couple, Sherlock would respond with an equally sentimental speech, but he didn't and Molly would never expect such a thing. She was one of a small number of people privileged enough to have learned to speak Sherlockese. She knew that the simple act of touching was a testament to how much she meant to him. That letting the calculating mask slip enough for her to see the affection in his expression spoke more of his love than words ever would. Even if he could never quite lable what he felt, Molly could see it.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to Molly's cheek and slowly moved to press a kiss to her neck. He liked feeling her pulse on his lips and lingered there before slowly pressing kisses back up and along her jaw. Finally, he kissed her.

Among the many things she had learned about Sherlock over the years was that he could be incredibly gentle when he wanted to be. He began brushing his fingertips along Molly's arms and face, then began slow gentle strokes through her hair. He really did like it when she left her hair down for him. "Like silk," he had murmured once. Sherlock's best, most honest compliments happened when he was distracted by the feel of her. For someone who didn't generally seek out physcial contact, he was very tactile. Molly felt tears well up in her eyes at the tenderness of his caresses, so incongruous with the Sherlock Holmes presented for public consumption.

Not that he became a completely different person when he kissed her. On the contrary, Sherlock's ability to catalog physical reactions and correlate them to emotional responses was phenomenal. Molly was a very lucky girl and she knew it.

Molly moved one hand to Sherlock's curls ant the other to his neck, feeling him swallow convulsively as she ran a thumb along his throat. One of Sherlock's hands slid down her back and he pulled Molly to stand between his legs, tilting his head as he did to deepen the kiss. Molly was glad he had wrapped an arm around her waist, otherwise she might have melted into the pavement. She couldn't have cared less at that moment about anything but touching -and being touched by- Sherlock Holmes.

Of course that's when they heard a loud cough behind them.

"Go away, Lestrade," Sherlock growled against Molly's mouth and, oh, that felt lovely.

"I need your statements." There was clear amusement in Lestrade voice.

"Tomorrow," Molly said. Or she may have just moaned, she didn't really know. Or care.

"You two do know everyone -and I mean everyone- can see you, right?"

"Don't care," Sherlock growled again.

"Yeah, well Molly might."

She didn't really, but there was the paparazzi thing they had to deal with now (they even had a couple nickname), so she reckoned they should cut it out for the moment before they became the subject of another lurid headline. She gently pulled away and rested her forehead against Sherlock's shoulder so she wouldn't have to see the disappointment on his face.

"Do you want me to take you home?" It was clear by the way he asked that Sherlock didn't want that, but was still uncertain about the fall out from the events of the evening.

"No," Molly responded simply, but was too languid from his kisses to elaborate.

"Do you... want to come back to Baker Street with me...?" Molly smiled into Sherlock's shoulder at his hesitancy.

"Yes," she responded definitively.

In short order, they were in a cab headed for Baker Street. Upon arrival, they received another lecture on too much public displays of affection from the cab driver. Sherlock threw a ridiculous amount of money back through the window, muttering about bad cabbies, then ushered Molly upstairs where they continued their displays of affection in private.


	5. The Not-Valentine's Day Date

AN: Another soppy one kids! I do better with funny than romantic, but hopefully no one is too out of character. The first line is from _The Bascombe Valley Mystery. _All of the holidays mentioned are real, although not as risque as Sherlock makes them sound.

* * *

"There's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," mumbled Sherlock Holmes slouching on the sofa in 221B Baker Street on a crisp winter afternoon, his significant other of five months sitting next to him. That he was becoming frustrated was obvious to both.

"No, I suppose not," Molly Hooper answered his previous statement while rummaging through her enormous bag.

"Women _like_ St. Valentine's Day," Sherlock insisted, annoyed, "It is an obvious fact."

"I suppose most do," Molly agreed, not looking up until she found the little desk diary she carried everywhere. All attempts by Sherlock to get her to use the calendar feature on her smart phone were met with a smile, kiss and continued use of her little notebook. He kept trying mainly for the smile and kiss, having long ago given up on actually changing her habit. She liked writing. Which wouldn't have been so odd if her handwriting was any where near legible.

"It is my personal belief -backed up with copious amounts of research- that women invented the holiday to extort jewelry from men."

"Good thing I don't wear jewelry as a rule then, isn't it?" Molly responded, not rising to the bait. She looked up from her perusal of the month of February and smiled at him, "So, where were we?"

"_I_ was willing to make the sacrifice of allowing one of our special occasion dates to be on Valentines day -a perfectly suitable suggestion- and _you_ were saying _no_," he drew the word out in frustration. He had already made a mental outline of the celebratory dining, gift exchange and more personal activities later in the evening when Molly threw a spanner in the works.

Molly sighed and made a show of flipping through her little book, presumably to pick another holiday. "I'm sorry, I just... I don't really like Valentines Day. It's never really been a thing with me."

"Perfectly understandable considering the number you've spent alone," Sherlock began, halting when he saw Molly wince. He quickly continued, sitting up and leaning towards her, "but Molly, you're _not_ alone anymore and I've been reliably informed that celebrating St. Valentine's Day together is a milestone with couples."

"John tell you that or have you been researching on CupidUK again?"

"Both."

"Mmm," Molly said, folding her lips in to hide a smile. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks.

Sherlock deliberately looked away, knowing full well the distraction those dimples could be. Plus, he was determined to get to the bottom of Molly's reluctance to celebrate a holiday _predicated on romance_ with her _romantic_ partner. With _him_. But then...maybe that was the problem?

"Molly," he said, being careful of his phrasing, "I've spoken to John -and Mary, for that matter- about my ideas on celebrating the holiday and they wholeheartedly approved. If you're worried I'll make a mess of this-"

"No!" Molly shouted, startled. She turned to him anxiously and grasped his knee. "Of course I don't think that! I've loved everything we've done together Sherlock, you know that! I'm sure I would love what ever you've planned. I'm sure I _will_, just...maybe not on Valentine's Day?"

"Why not?" Sherlock tried very hard not to sound petulant, but wasn't very successful. He had spent quite a lot of time preparing himself to participate in a holiday that he had scorned for most of his adult life as a blatant attempt by jewelry brokers to raise their market share. Overcoming the distaste for overt commercialism had not been easy, but he reminded himself of the goal: Molly's happiness.

Only it wasn't making her happy and that wasn't making _him_ happy.

"Why don't you like Valentine's Day?" Sherlock asked bluntly. He had a hard time doing it often, but sometimes the direct, honest approach worked better with Molly than subterfuge.

Molly sighed and picked at the edge of her book, "It's not for the reasons you think."

"So, some idiot _didn't_ break your heart on St. Valentines Day?"

"No, well, yes, actually, just not a boyfriend," She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she finally looked at him, Sherlock felt his chest ache at the pain in her eyes. "When I was a little girl, every year, I made a big paper heart for my parents. Paper, lace, glitter... the works. I would come home from school and give it to my parents and we'd have cake and one chocolate each. Every year my Mum and Dad would go out and do something special. Dad would save up all year to pay for it. Always something grand like the opera or ballet, fancy restaurant," Molly smiled at the memory, but it was filled with sadness. "I'd watch Mum get dressed in a fancy, sparkly dress and I'd walk around in her heels while she did her makeup. She would spritz perfume on my tummy and blot her lipstick on my cheek to make me laugh."

Sherlock watched Molly reach up and lightly touch her cheek briefly, her eyes closed. The sadness was still there, bleeding through and tainting what should have been a dearly treasured memory. Molly opened her eyes, staring at a spot in the distance, and began plucking at the little notebook in her lap.

"One Valentine's day, I came home, with my big card to give to Mum and Dad... there was no cake or tea. No chocolate. Just my Dad sitting at table... crying." Molly took a breath and sat up straight, hesitating a moment before looking at Sherlock. "I hate St. Valentine's Day because it was so happy and she chose _that_ day to leave us. Not the day before. Not the day after. _That day_. She ran away with another man on the day that Dad had always tried to make _so_ special for her."

Sherlock was silent for a while, watching Molly swallow the bad memories and visibly pull herself together. He had watched her go through this process quite often in the years that he had known her, but it never failed to amaze him. She had an uncanny ability to deal with emotions without shutting those emotions off. Something he was gradually learning from Molly's example. He gently took Molly's small hand in his and laced their fingers together. Her smile was a little wobbly, but there.

"So," Sherlock said, putting on his 'conundrum' face as Molly called it, "We've got a holiday to choose, something without any pesky emotionally volatile connotations." He plucked her small desk diary from her lap and thumbed through.

"Hm," he said raising his eyebrows, "It says here that the day after Valentine's is International Whale Day?"

"Are you commenting on my weight again?" Molly said haughtily. Sherlock coughed

"Right. Moving along..."

"Oh!" Molly said, leaning over to point out a date, "How about Extraterrestrial Visitor Day?"

"Fancy being probed then?" Sherlock said with a leer.

"Naughty boy..." Molly murmured, blushing.

"World Thinking Day?"

"Every day is World Thinking Day with you."

"True. Not special enough. So..."

"How about International Tongue Twister Day? You like twisting tongues," Molly stated, tongue firmly in cheek.

"Naughty girl," Sherlock murmured, "It depends on the weather that week. I planned everything based on this week's forecast."

"Whether the weather is warm, whether the weather is hot, we have to put up with the weather, whether we like it or not."

Sherlock gave her a look. "You've been saving that, haven't you?"

"For ages," Molly said, dimpling prettily.

"Soooo...," Sherlock said, slapping his hands on his knees, "If we're to celebrate our first International Tongue Twister Day, we should probably practice, don't you think?" He glanced sideways at Molly who was doing the same to him.

"Right, of course! One can never get too much practice twisting tongues."

"Definitely." He turned suddenly and scooped Molly onto his lap, knocking her bag to the floor. Molly giggled and wound her arms around his neck. Sherlock leaned close, his lips barely brushing hers as he murmured, "Which witch wished which wicked wish?"

"This one," Molly breathed.

"What did she wish?"

Molly's answer left them both breathless... and tongue tied...


	6. The Formal Date

AN: This date takes place early in their relationship. After the "Paris Catacombs," but before the "Night at the Ballet." Feel free to ignore the rant after the story. I just needed to let that out.

* * *

In a posh shop, on a posh street in London's poshest shopping district stood the least posh person Molly Hooper knew: herself. She was staring into a huge pier mirror, looking at a stunning evening gown currently clinging to her curves and covering enough of the other bits to be decent...she supposed.

"Are you sure this is appropriate for the type of gala I described?" Molly asked the sales clerk standing just behind the nervous shopper.

The sales clerk, Lydia, smiled and said, "Yes, dear. This is the latest. You're actually the first to try it on. It's perfect for you."

Molly plucked at the skirt, which was floor length, but had an almost hip-high slit that flew open any time she moved. In spite of that, it still managed to be very tight. The hem puddled several inches around her bare feet. "Isn't it a bit long, though?" Molly asked, hopefully.

"Oh, we'll have to get you matching heels, of course. A pair of stilettos will even things out. Elongate your legs. We may have to take it in around the chest, though," Lydia unceremoniously tugged at the loose fabric on either side of Molly's breasts. "It should fit a bit tighter. The drape isn't open enough...there we go."

Molly couldn't help the wince at how much of her chest was exposed. She hadn't considered wearing very high heels, either. She almost said so to Lydia, but bit her lip instead. She hated this, hated feeling intimidated by a dress. That's why she only shopped in areas that sold clothing suited to her tastes. Unfortunately, none of her regular shops carried anything formal, so this trip had been necessary. Lydia had smelled fresh meat the moment Molly walked through the door. She could practically hear the woman adding up her commission tally when Molly asked for advice.

there was a sudden loud exclamation and Molly smiled at the brief look of panic on Lydia's face. She squashed a giggle on her way to the large bag that held her phone. One day she would tell Sherlock that the disoriented message he had left on her mobile the night of John's stag do was now a ringtone. Sherlock didn't even remember drunk dialing her, let alone the message: _"Muh...Molly! Molly, tell.. tellll them I KNOW ASH!"_ It was the last bit she used as an alert for incoming messages from the great detective.

Unlocking her phone, Molly read her new boyfriend's (it was so weird to be able to say that!) text. Even as she opened the first, her phone sounded indicating a second, third and fourth text. Must be case related.

_Lestrade called. Body at Bart's. I need you.~SH_

_John says I should ask if you found suitable outfit? "Body can wait." Apparently ~SH_

_I'm in the lobby. We can share a cab. ~SH_

_If you are finished ~SH_

She sent a quick response asking him to come back to the dressing rooms, then put away her mobile. Molly took a deep breath, gathering the tattered remains of her confidence. If she was going to buy this dress, then he would see her in it eventually. Might as well get it over with. She stepped through the curtains into the outer room -which looked like a Paris runway- and her eyes immediately found Sherlock.

The tall man was standing with a hand in the pocket of his bespoke suit, completely unconscious of what a dashing picture he made. He was sending off more texts, presumably to Lestrade. Probably to John as well, in spite of the fact that his comrade was most likely waiting in the lobby. Molly held the gown's skirt up (and closed) and quietly hobbled her way over. Lydia fussed about for a moment arranging the dress, just so, and then discreetly coughed. Sherlock glanced up from the phone in his hand. He did a double take and slowly straightened, pocketing the phone. Out of the corner of her eye, Molly could see Lydia preening, obviously thinking she had gotten Sherlock's attention. Unfortunately for Lydia, it wasn't the sort of attention that would lead to a huge commission.

"That appears to be one of the new designs from Clare's most recent collection." Sherlock's eyes swept over her, but his expression was carefully neutral. He ended by looking her directly in the eye. "Is this what you've chosen?"

"I...uh, it's a stunning dress..." Molly hedged, "don't you like it?"

"It _is_ a stunning dress, it's just not you."

There was a time when Molly would have been crushed by that statement and Sherlock would have been left wondering what he did to make Molly cry, but they had known each other so long that Molly didn't even flinch and Sherlock trusted her to understand what he was saying.

"You don't like it," Molly said plainly.

"No," Sherlock confirmed, not the least bit apologetic, "and neither do you, as evidenced by the way you keep tugging at the tight skirt, not to mention the way your hand keeps going to your chest. Obviously covering your decolletage, which is displayed a little more blatantly than you are accustomed to. And then there are the worry lines on your forehead. Why would you choose a dress that makes you this uncomfortable?"

The brief glance directed at Lydia clearly indicated that Sherlock knew the answer and was resisting the urge to deduce that woman to within an inch of her life. Molly sighed and closed her eyes briefly, then said, "I've never been to a really elegant event. I don't know how to dress for something like that, so I asked Lydia's advice."

"Clare is a very talented new designer, sir," the sales clerk, an overly made-up young woman wearing a silk suit that cost more than Molly's entire wardrobe. "I assured madam that this gown is on the cutting edge-"

"You're clothes make a statement about _you_ Molly," Sherlock cut the sales clerk off, "Soft, cheerful, unexpectedly bold. You prefer practical clothes and comfortable shoes so that you can concentrate on enjoying what you are doing and not what's being pinched or riding up or gaping open. You've never been afraid to wear whatever you want, with no regard to current fashion. What's changed?"

Molly regarded him for a moment, the worry lines on her forehead almost gone. "I just didn't want to embarrass you at such an important event."

"Why would you think I would be embarrassed by you?" Sherlock asked with genuine confusion. Molly's worry lines went away completely, replaced by smile lines.

"I don't know, really," Molly said with a shrug, "We've never been to such a high class do together. _I've_ never been to something this formal at all. I've got nothing to wear and, well, you dress like you stepped out of a fashion mag every day of the week! I know you look amazing in formal wear and I didn't want to end up looking like a bit of rubbish stuck to your sleeve."

Sherlock gave her an exasperated look. Really. Molly continued to surprise him with how silly she could be about some things. He wasn't used to having to deal with a Molly who was less than absolutely confident about what she was wearing. The only time he had seen her this uncomfortable in her clothing was at that unfortunate Christmas Party during his duel with The Woman. Even then, he hadn't been paying much attention and, honestly, he tried not to recall that night at all. This was new territory for him, but he knew it was important for him to say something. He just hoped he said it the right way.

"I do prefer well-made suits -which happen to be classic clothing, therefore never out of style- but if I were a slave to fashion I would own a pair of skinny jeans and a striped roll-necked sweater. Have you ever seen me in either?"

Molly snorted, highly amused by the mental image, and shook her head in the negative.

"As to this being an _important_ event, it's not. You know I don't care for such things. Mycroft bullied me into attending. The only reason I said yes was because it gives me an opportunity to take you somewhere you've never been before. And there will be dancing." Molly smiled brightly at that and Sherlock's expression softened. He didn't smile, but it was a close as he could manage when they were surrounded by people.

"And if you're worried about your 'bestie' Mycroft," Sherlock continued with an annoyed sarcasm that made Molly giggle, "I assure you, he will not take particular note of what you are wearing. He enjoys your 'surprisingly engaging conversation' -that's a quote by the way- and you obviously haven't realized that the invitation was directed more towards you than me in the first place."

Molly hadn't realized that and could respond only with a startled, "Oh!"

"Molly, the only thing that makes this event worth attending is _you_ and it won't be _you_ attending in that dress."

There were certain moments when Sherlock could be rendered speechless, motionless and with a completely blank mind. Molly smiling at him with such utter devotion was one of them. He stared down into the face of the woman who made him want to take a chance on romance and lost himself for several seconds. But he was still Sherlock Holmes, after all, and there was a body drying up at Bart's.

"Now. We have a case, so let's get on with it," Sherlock said with a decisive air, "You have a unique talent for being able to find just the right Molly outfit and I'm willing to bet you _did_ find something you liked before being steered towards the haute couture."

Molly's eyes darted to a rack to the left. That was enough of an answer for Sherlock and he turned to the collection of dresses hanging there. It didn't take much time to find the one that Molly would have wanted among all of the obnoxiously elegant gowns surrounding it. He pulled it out and handed it to her with a raised eyebrow.

"That's the one," Molly confirmed, taking the empire-waist dress of bright orange silk. Her eyes glowed and Molly smiled up at him in a most disarming way. Sherlock felt idiotically proud of himself when she rose on the tips of her toes to bestow a kiss to his chin, before thanking him softly and hobbling back towards the changing rooms.

It was clear Molly had found her dress, so it was just down to accessories. Sherlock, who -as much as he liked seeing Molly happy- really, really wanted to get to Bart's, pulled out his black credit card and waived it in the direction of the sales clerks who had gathered to watch. Even Lydia, who had been about to follow Molly, stopped and gaped.

"Miss Hooper needs the right accessories for her gown and she needs them quickly. Not you," Sherlock said, pointing at Lydia, She opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock, who blamed her for the delay and was not willing to waste any more time shook his head. "No. Next time, try actually listening to your client instead of trying to pad your commission. Go," Lydia dismissed, he turned to the gaggle of sales clerks looking up at him in awe. "Now. Bag, shoes, jewelry. No earrings, they hurt her ears. You have five minutes."

By the time Molly came back out -smiling and twirling in the gown that, unsurprisingly, fit like it was made for her (there are no coincidences)- Sherlock had a good selection of accessories accumulated for her to choose from. She did so quickly, with all of the confidence he was used to seeing her exhibit, and they were meeting John in the lobby in minutes. Molly had tried to protest when he presented his card to pay, but with a reminder of the pending case, she wisely let it go.

"We can settle later," he said with a wink.

A few evenings later, Sherlock walked into the Darwin Center at the Natural History Museum with Molly on his arm. She was as excited to be there as he thought she would be, which made mingling with the huge crowd much more tolerable. He actually had fun introducing her around and watching her interact with such a varied group. There were ambassadors and rock stars, some distinguished members of the international medical community (Molly had absolutely bloomed among that crowd) and, naturally, members of the government that Mycroft insisted on introducing to them. And of course there was enough dancing and deductions whispered coyly in Molly's ear to keep him from getting too bored, so when Mycroft asked to dance with Molly, he was able to allow it with a minimum of fussing.

As he stood sipping a really excellent scotch and watching Molly Hooper sparkling on the dance floor, Sherlock mused on how extraordinarily satisfying it was to be able to introduce Molly to new places and experiences -once she finally understood she didn't have to change herself for those places or experiences. Though the relationship was still new, it seemed to be progressing well. Sherlock would admit to not having much in the way of a frame of reference, but Molly was happy and he was -was he? He was.- quite content himself. That was enough to be getting on with.

* * *

This is a love note to Molly's wardrobe. I love what she wears (even the brown trousers) and the absolute individualism the creators have given the character through her clothing. I think it takes much more courage to dress in what you like than what is 'fashionable.' The only time we see Molly really uncomfortable with regards to clothes is when she tried to dress in a conventionally sexy dress for the Christmas Party during _A Scandal in Belgravia_. She looked as out of place in that dress as Irene Adler would wearing Molly's holiday jumper. Not because Molly can't be sexy, but because she was trying to fit someone else's idea of sexy. I like to think that was the writer's point with regards to Molly's clothing in that scene, though I admit I may be over-thinking it a bit.

Sorry, didn't mean to rant, but I read a comment in a Sherlock forum hating on Molly's clothes as a sign of her 'weakness.' I feel the exact opposite. Molly's own unique fashion sense, not informed by what Society considers fashionable, is one of the things that made Molly stand out to me as a strong character from the first episode. The Sherlock writers have my undying loyalty for not putting the character though a Cinderella-style makeover. A fashion makeover has nothing to do with who a person is and this is why I despise Cinderella stories in which the heroine has to get a makeover before she finds happiness. Molly doesn't need your D&G dress, anonymous forum lady. She needs her cherry cardigan, her awesome brain/heart combination and a strong slapping arm. So there.

Please don't think I disapprove of anyone who prefers trendy clothing or name brand designers or haute couture. The point I'm trying to make is that everyone should wear what they individually like and whatever they choose to wear. _**It's. All. Good.**_


	7. The Babysitting Date

A sense of déjà vu overcame Molly Hooper as she walked up the front steps of a cute little house in the suburbs of London. How many times in her teens had she done this exact thing: spent date night babysitting for family friends? This time she wasn't even getting paid. On the plus side, this time she was allowed to have her boyfriend over to help.

"Molly, I am so sorry about this," Mary Watson said as she opened the door to meet her friend on the front stoop. The women embraced and went back into the foyer. As Molly hung up her coat, John met them and apologized again.

"Don't be silly, John. You can't choose when a family emergency happens."

"I'm not so sure," John said with a sad smile, "Harry seems to have impeccable timing. I'm just sorry to be the reason behind another ruined date with Sherlock."

"John," Molly said with a grin, "my last date with Sherlock ended with the two of us being strip searched by Interpol. I think it's safe to say the bar's been set really high for disastrous dates. Babysitting on short notice doesn't even rate a one."

John gave her a look, "Yeah, about that. Try not to let in any international smugglers or jewel thieves while we're gone."

"Yes, sir, Dr. Watson. I brought homework for after the baby is asleep."

"And stay out of the liquor cabinet," Mary added with a grin.

"I've given Sherlock all of the instructions," John started.

"And I've sent you all of the things he forgot," Mary finished, waving her phone. With that, the two left.

Molly continued into the front room where she found Sherlock having a very earnest conversation about acceptable behaviour with a gurgling two month old. She stood in the door way watching her tall, handsome boyfriend pacing slowly before the Moses basket in which the baby lay. The tiny girl blew spit bubbles in response to Sherlock's questions.

Molly stifled a giggle and mused to herself that minding a baby on short notice might turn out to be a nice date after all.

**Incoming message 07:35**

Everything OK? -JW

_Fine here. How is Harry? ~Molly_

Getting her stomach pumped -JW

Any tantrums yet? -JW

_Not yet. Close call when we ended up with the wrong takeaway. You know how he is ~Molly_

_Oh, you meant the baby. No, she's an angel ~Molly_

**Incoming message 08:11**

Baby asleep yet? -JW

_No. Sorry. She's winning a staring contest with Sherlock ~Molly_

First Toby, now my daughter. He hates losing. Expect that tantrum soon -JW

**Outgoing message 09:23**

Mary? Who taught Sherlock to change nappies? ~Molly

I did. Why? -MaryWatson

Did he fold the nappy in the shape of a swan? -MaryWatson

_No. He did it perfectly. And fast. ~Molly_

He timed it again, didn't he? -MaryWatson

His personal best is 19 seconds -MaryWatson

_16.3 seconds ~Molly_

WOW -MaryWatson

**Incoming message 10:41**

Did Sherlock finally give up the staring contest? -JW

Is the baby asleep yet? -JW

Molly? What's up? -JW

Sherlock? -JW

Sherlock. Respond or expect Senario Blue -JW

**Ebrythn dfine her -SH**

What's going on? -JW

You only misspell like that if you're drugged -JW

Wait, are you two snogging? -JW

In front of MY DAUGHTER? -JW

_No! Sorry, John ~Molly_

_**Baby asleep. Can't see us -SH**_

_**Go away -SH**_

_He means we are NOT doing anything inappropriate in front of the baby ~Molly_

Don't traumatize my daughter -JW

She's new. -JW

_**No longer a concern. Baby awake again. -SH**_

_**Have I mentioned how grateful I am for the chance to give up private time with Molly to mind your spawn? -SH**_

The baby hijacked Molly? -JW

_**Yes -SH**_

Sorry mate. -JW

_**No you aren't -SH**_

Welcome to my world -JW

**Incoming message 11:08**

Harry's sorted. Be home in 20. -JW

All clothes better be buttoned up correctly -JW

Hello? Everything still ok? -JW

_Fine ~Molly_

Molly? -JW

_Sherlock finally got the baby to sleep ~Molly_

_He got a little creative ~Molly [file attached]_

[...downloading image...]

Mary says bless you and your mePhone -JW

That pic should be good for 2 weeks of teasing -JW

Molly? You ok? -JW

_Yes ~Molly_

_No ~Molly_

_I want one ~Molly_

A baby or a Sherlock? -JW

_Both ~Molly_

Give it time, love -JW

You're halfway there already -JW

Mary and John arrived home to find their friends in the front room. Molly was completely absorbed with the sleeping bundle in her arms. Sherlock, on the other hand, was studying Molly with a kind of intensity John had only witnessed a few times. The older man smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock watching Molly. She might be closer to getting her two fondest desires than she knew.

* * *

It's my personal belief that all Sherlolly writers should write a Baby Watson fic, a BAMF Molly fic, a Toby fic and a Confused Dating fic. This is me working my way through the list.

Dedicated to Stormweaver, who is a great beta reader and very patient.


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